


it's not cock blocking if you never had a shot with her, bro

by Jks



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Connor McNickname McDavid, Connor is upset about this too, Connor plays hockey Dylan does not, Darnell Nurse deserves better, I'll include it in the sequel, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Ryan Strome (mentioned) - Freeform, Taylor Hall is an idiot, but he means well, everyone is kinda idiotic tbh, except Darnell Nurse, if I've missed a McDavid nickname, pls tell me asap, the sequel is just their wedding, they don't get married at scotiabank arena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:01:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jks/pseuds/Jks
Summary: Mitch realises he's fucked when he picks up the phone and the first words out of Dylan’s mouth are: “Did you cock block me and Connor McDavid last night?”“What? No,” Mitch’s reply is automatic, because he is a bro, okay? And as much pleasure as it gives him to annoy Dylan, he would never stop another bro from hooking up with Number One Draft Pick, First Openly Gay NHL Superstar, Connor McJesus McDavid. Except—Okay so, now that Mitch is actively thinking about it, it’s possible that the sandy-haired, ruddy-cheeked boy he dragged Stromer away from was, in fact, Hockey’s Slated Saviour and The Next Next One, Connor McFuckme McDavid. “Oh, fuck.”
Relationships: Connor McDavid/Dylan Strome, Mitch Marner/Auston Matthews
Comments: 72
Kudos: 328





	it's not cock blocking if you never had a shot with her, bro

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to MakeBreakfastNotWar for beta-reading this and putting up with my month long silences, also for supporting my half formed thoughts and fleshing them out into workable stories. If I ever get around to posting anything else, I guarantee she was the one who got the ball rolling on it. Also shout out to Tirsh who set me up in the beginning with the timing of the fic so that I could have non-McDavid connections to Mikey's friend's party. (bc let's be real, Connor was't taking Hallsy and co to a party if he could help it).

Dylan doesn’t bother to check who’s calling him before he picks up the phone because it’s never anyone except Mitch, and honestly Mitch can fuck right off because Dylan hasn’t been this hungover in his _life_ and it’s all Marns’ fault. Dylan hates everything about him and hopes he chokes to death on Matthews’ dick.

“Fuck right off, Marns. I hate everything about you and I hope you choke to death on Matthews’ dick,” if Dylan sounds less fond than he usually does when dealing with Mitchell Marner it’s only because aside from getting Dylan gut-wrenchingly hammered last night, Mitch had also dragged him away from a cute boy (who was possibly Dylan’s, like, _soulmate_) – to...cry about Matts going home to Arizona for uni break or something – and Dylan’s not ready to forgive him yet. “Do you have any idea how cute that boy was last night?” 

He and Cute Boy hadn’t gone past a little bit (or maybe a lot, whatever) of making out – _Thanks, Mitchell_ – but Dylan vaguely remembers exchanging numbers sometime before Marns decided that if he wasn’t getting any dick, then no one was. Hungover Dylan gives a silent shout-out to Drunk Dylan for, _unlike Marns_, being a total bro. 

Mitch is uncharacteristically silent and Dylan’s about to start feeling bad for being snappy when he finally speaks up.

“Sorry, um, sorry—” Dylan knows immediately that it isn’t Marns on the phone because Marns has never apologised to Dylan in his life, and certainly not in response to any insult Dylan has hurled his way. Usually he just laughed; which was fucking annoying back when Dylan actually _meant_ what he was saying, and is frankly still fucking annoying even now that Marns has somehow conned Dylan into being his best friend and like, loving him or whatever. 

Dylan tunes back in as Obviously Not Mitch continues, “—is this Dylan?”

“Yeah, shit, sorry,” Dylan pulls the phone from his ear to squint at the Caller ID – which seems to just be a row of hockey emojis, _what the fuck_. “Sorry, who is this?”

“Oh, it’s uh, it’s Connor? We um, we met last night?” Dylan has no idea who this ‘Connor’ is: he probably met a million people last night and honestly can’t remember any of them because they all ceased to matter once he laid eyes on the cutest boy in the world. “We uh, talked about hockey a bit and um, then we uh—”

The hockey talk would explain the Caller ID, but Dylan definitely only ‘uh’ with one guy last night. Logically, this should mean that Connor is Dylan’s cute guy, which would be great and all except—

“I thought your name was Dave?”

“No, um,” Connor (cute guy?) chuckles a little nervously. “Definitely Connor.”

“But,” Dylan squints a bit as he tries to remember how the fuck he got ‘Dave’ from ‘Connor’. “Your mates were calling you Dave?” 

The whole night is a bit of a blur – again: _Thanks, Mitchell_ – but Dylan’s pretty sure he remembers one of cute guy’s friends careening into them mid-make out and hollering something about ‘Dave getting that dick’. It was the alliteration that made it stick in Dylan’s alcohol soaked brain, so while it’s possible – probable, really – that he misheard the ‘Dave’, he’s positive they weren’t saying ‘Connor’. 

There’s a pause as, presumably, Connor processes this. “Oh,” he says, sounding surprised, “um, Davo? Yeah.” 

Connor doesn’t elaborate, but while ‘Davo’ sounds familiar, Dylan feels like he’s still missing something. “Davo doesn’t sound anything like Connor, though?” 

This time the pause is longer, and Dylan definitely gets the feeling that something’s going over his head here. “Yeah, it’s um, it’s from McDavid?”

“McDavid?” Dylan stares blankly into the distance as that thing that was going over his head suddenly veers off course and smacks him in the face instead. “Like, Connor McDavid?”

There’s a nervous chuckle from the other end of the line. “Yeah um, that’s me, I guess?”

“Oh,” Dylan tries to keep his voice even. “I uh, didn’t realise.” If the hangover wasn’t a dead giveaway for how drunk he was last night, this certainly would be. “Must have been drunker than I thought.”

There’s a long silence, and Dylan knows he should probably say something to fill it but he’s currently too busy trying to understand how the fuck he hooked up with NHL star Connor McFucking McDavid – first overall pick, and first out player and, fuck, first star of at least ninety percent of Dylan’s, err, ‘dreams’ – and somehow didn’t notice. Fuck. Drunk Dylan might be a bro, but he’s also apparently a _fucking idiot_. 

“Sorry.” Connor breaks the silence eventually and, wait, what? “I didn’t realise you were that drunk. I would never have, um—I mean, if I knew, I wouldn’t have uh, you know.” (Dylan definitely does know.) “I thought—um, you said you had to warn me that you loved hockey and I thought maybe you were just, um, being nice? Like, you were letting me know that you knew I was uh—knew who I was, but not making a big deal or whatever—” (Dylan can see why Connor might have thought that. In reality, the hockey thing is a pretty standard opener for Dylan: apparently even most Canadian boys have a limit on how much hockey talk they can stand.) “—not that I think you should make a big deal, um, I was glad you didn’t, obviously – but it’s just that, well, I guess people who like hockey sometimes, kind of, well, it’s just—”

Dylan can’t believe he didn’t know how much of a disaster Connor McDavid was. This is one of the weirdest moments of his life. And Dylan has shared a room with Brinksy so, you know, he’s _seen_ shit. 

(One time, he came back from class to find Alex wearing a leotard that wouldn’t have been out of place in Eric Prydz’s ‘Call on Me’, listening to the Imperial March, and twerking. Not just twerking; wall twerking. Another time, Alex filled an inflatable pool with applesauce and turkey legs “because Thanksgiving”; which really raised more questions than it answered considering it was _January_, and considering Dylan _definitely didn’t ask_.) 

But Dylan doesn’t have time to dwell on everything wrong with Alex DeBrincat. To be fair, not even a dedicated team of scientists would ever have enough time to cover everything that’s wrong with Alex DeBrincat, but right now Dylan has no time at all because he’s just realised Connor is _still talking_. 

“—and you’re really tall which is just um, like I’m pretty tall but you’re like, taller and—”

“Dude, stop.” Dylan can practically hear Connor’s jaw snap closed and he feels bad because that was kind of harsh, but Dylan is _panicking_, okay? “I mean, sorry, just, it’s fine – no regrets. Drunk Dylan and Sober Dylan are definitely on the same page regarding this. You, I mean.” _What the fuck is he even saying?_ “Like, I don’t remember everything, but I’m pretty sure I told Marns that I thought you were—”

Dylan cuts off abruptly as he remembers why exactly he woke up to Connor McDavid on his phone, and not in his bed. “I have to go. Sorry.”

And then Dylan _hangs up_. On _Connor McDavid_. 

He stares at his phone in horror for several moments, but it’s already too late so he’ll just have to call Connor back later or something. Right now, Dylan is going to fucking _kill_ Mitchell Marner. 

* 

(The night Connor McDavid met Dylan Strome went a little something like this:

Hallsy’s new teammate, Nate, has a friend from the O, Mikey McLeod. Mikey knows everyone in the GTA, apparently, and offers to hook them up with a good house party: which, these days, meant lots of beer and enough guys on the hockey scene to not make a big deal over the appearance of a handful of NHL players. 

Connor doesn’t particularly want to go. He isn’t a big drinker, even in the off season, and while he’s not about to say it, he knows that even guys who have friends in the show can sometimes get a little weird around “Connor McDavid”. But Hallsy gives him the puppy eyes, and he and Ebs have come all this way to do more than just mope around with Connor and avoid the rest of the world (Hallsy’s words, not Connor’s). So, Connor changes into black jeans and a Biosteel hoodie, and ignores the chirping he gets for having no style; if he’s being forced to go out tonight, he wants comfort clothes. 

Hallsy disagrees.

“Look, Davo, I just don’t understand how you think you’re ever going to get any dick if you insist on dressing like a sad, white, straight boy?” Hallsy means well, but sometimes Connor wonders if he ever listens to the words that come out of his mouth. 

“I’m not—Hallsy!” Connor can feel his face heat and knows he’s gripping the steering wheel too tightly but, “I’m not trying to get any...,” – he lowers his voice to a hiss – “_dick_, or anything.”

Hallsy blinks at him from the backseat. “Why not, dude? You’re not like, hideous or anything—”

“Thanks,” Connor hopes he sounds dry, but he’s not great with tone.

“And even if you were, you’re a hockey superstar! You could totally get your dick sucked, or suck some dick, or…I don’t really know what you like to do, okay? Maybe you’re not about that life: if you don’t like sex you can just tell us, man. No judgement here.” Hallsy pauses and Connor is, you know, focusing on the road, so it takes him a minute – and some pointed coughing from Nuge – to figure out Hallsy’s actually like, waiting for a reply.

“Oh, um,” Connor’s wondering if the total disregard for social boundaries and teammates’ privacy is a ‘first-overall on a losing team’ thing, or an ‘everyone in the NHL thing’; does Jack Eichel have to put up with over-involved teammates too? Should Connor have taken up lacrosse or like, curling, instead? “No, I’m not uh—like that. Um, I mean, I do. Uh, like sex. Um. I think?”

All four of their faces do a thing. “You think?”

Fuck. “Well, I haven’t really um…I only just came out. It didn’t seem worth the risk before that.” It’s not quite the truth – which runs closer to Connor’s innate awkwardness making him too uncomfortable to put himself out there, and the fact that he’s…waiting (for what, he’s not entirely sure, just that he knows he hasn’t found it yet) – but it’s close enough to be realistic. Or it would be, if Hallsy wasn’t overly obsessed with Connor’s sex life.

“Bullshit, Davo, you came out like, over a year ago.”

“Um,” Connor tries to think of reasons why people don’t have sex that won’t sound like he’s holding out for his soulmate or something. “I’m waiting for marriage?” 

…nailed it.

“Davo, just…no.” Hallsy pauses. “But also: insert McJesus joke here.”

Nuge elbows Hallsy because Nuge is Connor’s favourite. “Hallsy just, back off a little okay?” And then to break the tension: “you’re being creepy.”

Hallsy feigns offence, “I’m not being creepy—” 

“I think Davo would disagree.”

“I’m not being creepy,” Hallsy repeats, letting his grin fade into something more serious. “I just, like, I don’t want Davo to think he can’t hook up in front of us.” He catches Connor’s eye in the rearview mirror, “I don’t want you to think that it’ll make us think differently or act differently about it. It’s not—we’re not just supportive in theory, this isn’t—it’s like, if tomorrow I walked in on you getting banged – or banging; again, I don’t know what you’re into – it wouldn’t change anything for me like, you’re still my rookie, okay?”

“Um,” Connor has to blink back tears because he just, he _misses Hallsy_. And fuck, _Ebs_. It’s been less than a month since the trade was announced and Connor just—he’s not complaining about his contract but, did it have to be _them_? It’s not a secret that Hallsy’s – and now Ebs’ – trade was necessary to make room for Connor and yet, somehow, Hallsy’s still _here_, a year later, calling Connor his rookie like...like he didn’t just crash into Hallsy’s life and ruin it. Which isn’t something Connor thinks, you know, _a lot_ but—sometimes. He wishes someone would lighten the mood again because if he tries to speak now he’s going to cry. 

“Actually, I think you’ll find he’s _my_ rookie now, Jersey boy.” Nuge comes through for him, of course, and his comment does what it’s intended to do; which is make Hallsy squawk indignantly. Suddenly kid-line is scuffling in the backseat of Connor’s truck over who’s rookie he really is, and Connor didn’t think he was worried about them seeing him differently if he ever hooked up, but something in him relaxes anyway. 

Nursey glances over from the passenger seat, but doesn’t voice the concern Connor can see in his eyes; just jerks his head to the backseat, where Hallsy is taking advantage of being in the middle seat to try and put both Nuge and Ebs into a headlock. “So how far away is this party exactly? And should I be worried about dying before we get there?”

“I’m a great driver,” Connor pouts, breathing out an only slightly shaky laugh, “they’re not going to distract me.” He glances at the GPS and sees they’re close enough now that it’s probably safer to walk the last block rather than risk not finding a park. “But also: we’re here...mostly.” 

“Alright!” Hallsy hollers from the back, releasing his hold on Nuge and Ebs. “Let’s go get the captain some dick!”

“Hallsy, no.” It’s not just Connor who speaks, but Nuge, Nursey, and Ebs as well. 

“Hallsy, _yes_!” And it’s not so much that Connor can’t argue with that; it’s just that it’s Hallsy, so there’s really no point.)

* 

Hallsy calls a ‘team meeting’ approximately two minutes after Connor tells him that he didn’t get to make any plans with Dylan-from-last-night because Dylan-from-last-night hung up on him (and honestly, who hangs up on Connor McDavid?) ((Hallsy’s words, not Connor’s)). 

It’s just the five of them huddled in Connor’s living room – Connor, Ebs, Hallsy, Nuge, and Nursey – though Ebs, at Hallsy’s urging, had tried to get Drai to video chat in. (Drai was either busy, or lying to Ebs about being busy, and Connor doesn’t blame him at all if it’s the latter because he wishes he could pretend to be busy to get out of this, too.) 

“Okay, so walk me through this again.” Hallsy is pinching the bridge of his nose like Connor’s…everything, maybe, is giving him a headache. “You call up…Dylan?” Connor nods. “And then what?”

Connor flushes as he thinks of Dylan answering the phone, voice husky with sleep, talking about the cute boy (meaning Connor!) from last night. “Um, well at first he thought I was his friend, Marns—”

“Why?” Hallsy has his game face on, and Connor’s a little bit scared because he knows how crazy Hallsy gets about hockey. Nursey, who is playing Animal Crossing on Connor’s DS and not even pretending to pay attention, obviously doesn’t have the same fear.

“I don’t know?” Hallsy frowns at him and Connor scrambles for an answer. “Um, probably didn’t check his Caller ID?”

“Hmmm, that would make sense…” Connor can see Ebs and Nuge rolling their eyes behind Hallsy’s back, which is…fair. “And then what?”

“I told him it was Connor, uh, from last night, but he thought my name was Dave—”

“Because of ‘Davo’, uh huh.” Connor had already explained the mix up. And also, all of this.

“And um, then there was the whole um,” Connor waves his hand around to indicate…something. “McDavid thing.”

“Right.” Hallsy nods, “because he didn’t know you were Connor McDavid. Despite talking to you about hockey all night. And introducing himself as ‘Dylan who loves hockey’. And—”

“We get it, Hallsy,” Ebs chimes in, throwing a long-suffering look in Connor’s direction. “It’s weird that he didn’t recognise Connor – even though he was drunk – and we all know you’re really just upset that it means he definitely didn’t recognise you either.”

“Plus, we didn’t talk about hockey _all_ night,” Connor offers in Dylan’s defence. 

“Is that right, McJesus?” Hallsy’s look of mock outrage at Ebs’ chirp slides into a sleazy grin at the opening he’s just been given. Connor realises he’s fucked up. “Pray tell, what else did you and Dylan ‘talk’ about last night?”

“Um,” Connor’s thoughts are immediately and unfairly derailed by the memory of Dylan pressing him against a wall, hands tight around Connor’s waist, and skin warm under Connor’s fingers; Connor’s mouth had felt so dry until Dylan licked into it, tongue warm and wet, and he was so tall that Connor had to push up on his toes – just a little – to get the perfect angle. “Sorry, um…” He blinks away the images, flush working down his neck when he realises Hallsy and Ebs and Nuge are quietly laughing at him. Fondly, quietly laughing; but still.

“Aw, would you look at that?” Hallsy clutches at Ebs and Nuge, fake sniffing like he’s a prairie maiden. “Our baby rookie’s all grown up and letting oblivious, drunken idiots feel him up under the mistletoe.”

“That’s not—I didn’t—” Connor fumbles for a rebuttal and eventually settles on, “there was no _mistletoe_; it’s _July_.” Which is just…Connor doesn’t know why he even tries. 

“Right, so you let him feel you up without even the excuse of mistletoe, whatever, blah blah blah...you reveal you’re Connor McDavid and...he hangs up on you? Just like that?”

“Not—not _just_ like that.” Hallsy’s looking at him expectantly and Connor hadn’t told him this part, because it hurt a little to remember how warm Dylan had sounded when he told Connor he didn’t regret last night (“You, I mean” were his exact words, and Connor’s heart had done a silly little flop) and then how abruptly he’d hung up; leaving Connor standing in his empty kitchen, clutching his phone to his ear, and wondering what he’d done wrong. 

(Connor hadn’t even had the chance to say that he didn’t regret Dylan either; or that as much as he wished Dylan’s friend – Marns – hadn’t interrupted them, mostly Connor has been fantasising about holding Dylan’s hand and is that something Dylan would be interested in, too?; or that even just the sound of Dylan’s voice made Connor’s heart skip and...okay maybe not that one, not just yet, but the other two!)

“He um,” Connor wills himself not to blush (although he’s so red already it can hardly be visible anyway), “he said he had no regrets. And then he apologised, um, and _then_ he hung up.”

“Davo,” Hallsy’s staring into his eyes intently, and Connor thinks briefly that he wouldn’t be surprised if they started spinning, like that snake from the Jungle Book. Connor loves the Jungle Book. “Davo,” Hallsy repeats, “it’s really important that you tell me _exactly_ what he said before he hung up. I mean word-for-word.”

“Um, I don’t remember… he mentioned Marns – that’s the friend who uh—”

“Cock blocked you?”

“Um, I guess so, yeah.” Connor knows that’s technically what happened but he doesn’t really like calling it that because it wasn’t—it wasn’t really about missing out on sex: not for him. Not that he _hasn’t_ thought about the way Dylan’s body had felt slotted against his; all sharp angles to Connor’s hard planes; but Connor is also thinking about the way Dylan had smiled, slow and syrupy, and how he’d leaned one long arm on the wall over Connor’s shoulder and angled his body in such a way that felt intimate and heady, but not oppressive. “He – Dylan, I mean – said something about him...telling Marns about me, I think? And then he said, ‘I have to go. Sorry.’ And hung up.”

“‘Sorry’? Or ‘I’m sorry’?”

“Um, just ‘sorry’...I think.” Hallsy makes a face at this. “Is that—is that bad?” Connor hopes he doesn’t sound as anxious as he feels.

“Well—” Hallsy sounds apologetic, and Connor’s heart sinks.

“Of course not, Davo,” Nursey looks up from Connor’s DS, Connor didn’t even realise he’d been listening. “Hallsy’s being crazy. I’m sure Dylan just, I don’t know, forgot he had work or something. Just wait and see if he calls you back, and if not—”

“I’ll just be alone forever.” All four of them look at him, concerned, and Connor realises he’s said that aloud. “Um, I mean…”

“If not,” Nursey repeats carefully, “you can just send him a text.”

That’s...a much more rational response. Connor smiles in relief, “Oh, um, yeah.” And then, belatedly, “thanks.”

“No problem,” Nursey gives him a long, considering look. “Although, do we need to address the ‘forever alone’ thing?” 

“No it was, um, it was just a joke.” Which is mostly true. It’s not like Connor thinks Dylan is his—his _soulmate_ or anything: that would be crazy. It’s just...Connor is maybe a little bit crazy. 

“So the plan is to just wait?” Hallsy’s face indicates that he hates that idea, because Hallsy doesn’t understand that patience is a virtue. 

“I guess so?” Connor looks to Nursey, who nods. “Right.” Connor can do that. He can wait. “Okay.” He checks his phone: no missed calls. “Right.” He makes sure the ringer is on (it is) but he turns it off and back on again just to be safe. “Okay.” He checks his phone again, in case his ringer is actually broken: still no missed calls. “Right.” He wonders if he remembered to take his phone off Do Not Disturb this morning, and checks to make sure he did (he did). “Okay.” He puts his phone down, then picks it up again immediately in case—

“Davo!” He snaps his eyes guiltily to Nursey. “You need to chill. If Dylan’s at work he might not call back for hours.”

_Hours?_

“Hours?” Hallsy sounds as devastated as Connor feels. “I can’t wait _hours_, I’m so bored alread—”

He cuts off because Connor’s phone is ringing. _Connor’s phone is ringing_. 

He snatches it up and checks the Caller ID: ‘Dylan [blue heart] [orange heart] [hockey stick]’. 

“_It’s Dylan!_” He hisses, panicked, covering the microphone like Dylan can hear him. “_What do I do?_”

“Answer it! And then tell him you want to get married and have his babies!”

Connor can’t actually say that...can he?

Ebs slaps Hallsy round the head, “Not helpful, dickhead.” He starts dragging Hallsy out of the room, Nuge and Nursey trailing behind. “Just say you had a really nice time last night and you want to see him again or something.” Connor opens his mouth to ask if Ebs will talk to Dylan for him because that was smooth and Connor really can’t afford to fuck this up – you don’t put a forward in goal during the Stanley Cup Finals is all he’s saying – but, as if he can read Connor’s mind (and wants nothing to do with it) Ebs gives him a final thumbs up, throwing out a “don’t worry, you’ve got this, Captain,” as he closes the door behind him.

(“I think you mean _Mc_Captain—”

“Shut up, Hallsy, you’re so dumb.”)

Connor takes a deep breath. He’s the youngest captain in NHL history, the first active player to come out, and, most importantly, he’s already convinced this guy to kiss him once before. He’s got this. 

“Hi. Dylan? Hey, um, hi. Er, hey.”

...or not. 

* 

(The night Connor McDavid met Dylan Strome also went a little something like this:

Connor’s leaning against a wall near the back door, peering down into his Canada Dry (unspiked, despite Hallsy’s encouragement) when Hallsy careens into his side, back from where he’d wandered off to catch up with Nate, and some other guys he knew from Juniors.

“Davo!” Hallsy is maybe a little bit drunk, “Don’t look now but I think that guy is checking you out!”

Connor immediately turns to where Hallsy is looking. And, oh. _Oh_. 

The thing is, if you had asked Connor two seconds ago what his type was, he would say he didn’t have one, and that would have been a _lie_ because, as he’s just discovered, his type is this guy. Not—not _like_ this guy: tall and a little bit pointy. _This guy_: tall and a little bit pointy, but softened by sleepy eyes and a lazy smile. Connor can’t tear his eyes away, even as he feels his cheeks heat under this guy’s hooded gaze. 

In his periphery he sees Hallsy do a spit-take as he notices the blush creeping down Connor’s neck. 

“Davo, no,” Hallsy sounds horrified. “_That_ guy? You—look at what he’s _wearing_!”

Which is...yeah. Connor’s not exactly a fashion icon, but even he can see that this guy’s outfit is unfortunate.

Wearing a Blackhawks cap and a Maple Leafs t-shirt is weird, sure, but ultimately fine - good, even, maybe, because it probably means Connor’s soulmate has at least _some_ interest in hockey. Unfortunately Connor’s soulmate also appears to have paired his love of hockey with basketball shorts and—is that a _plaid_ overshirt? 

_Still_, Connor thinks, _that’s his future husband Hallsy’s insulting_. 

“That’s not—” Connor tries to find a way to spin the outfit, he really does, but... “I don’t care about what he’s _wearing_,” he finally goes with. Which would have been fine if it was Nursey or Nuge – maybe even Ebs – but it’s _Hallsy_ so.

“I bet you don’t...” Hallsy’s accompanies his comment with what can only be described as some aggressively sexual tongue thrusting (which was unnecessary because Connor already knew what he was implying; he’s a virgin, not an idiot).

“What’s Hallsy betting on? You know he’s not allowed to make bets when he’s drunk.” Ebs and Nuge appear behind Hallsy, fresh drinks in hand. Ebs is drinking his beer like a normal human, and Nuge is sipping his through one of those crazy straws. Connor doesn’t even want to know.

“Where’s Nursey?” He asks, instead of answering Ebs’ question.

Nuge waves him off, “think he’s chatting to some guy he knew from the O.”

Connor wants to know where all the guys _he_ knows from the O are. Then dismisses that thought pretty quickly when he realises that Raddy would be even worse than Hallsy about chirping Connor over his newly discovered taste in men. 

He zones out of the conversation for a bit, alternating between staring at his drink, and sneaking glances across the room to where his future life partner is holding court; mouth moving a mile a minute, and hands gesticulating wildly. Connor’s honestly a little afraid for the guy’s captive audience – who are all one slip away from being brained by a bottle of shitty beer.

“...quiet, Davo.”

“Huh?” Connor drags his eyes away from the guy to find Ebs and Nuge and Hallsy staring at him expectantly. Hallsy’s grinning: that’s not good. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening, um, what did you say?”

“I said you were being awfully quiet. Something on your mind?” Nuge slurps his drink obnoxiously, smirking around his stupid straw. “Or maybe, _someone_?”

“No, no one,” Connor refutes quickly, at the same time Hallsy says, “probably raccoon boy over there.”

“Don’t _look_!” Connor hisses, panicked, as they all turn to look. The guy glances over again, raising his eyebrows when he sees them staring. It’s an unfairly good look on him. Connor wants to die. 

“Holy shit, Davo,” Nuge whistles lowly, “no wonder you don’t hook up; you have the weirdest fucking taste.” He squints a little, “is that a _Blackhawks_ hat?”

“I do not have—have—_weird_ taste!” Connor defends, “people like the Blackhawks.”

“Yeah, if those people are _from Chicago_.” Nuge mutters. “You can’t date an American, Davo. That’s like...treason.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not treason,” Connor points out, helpfully. 

“Uh, it is if you’re Connor McCanada McDavid,” Nuge counters.

“Okay, that was _one_ article—”

“And a hashtag!”

“—and it was so long ago—”

“Two years is not ‘so long’, Davo.”

“—and it really doesn’t—”

“As much as I hate to interrupt, your boy is coming over here, Davo.” Connor instinctively blushes at the way Hallsy says ‘your boy’, then registers the rest of his sentence. 

“_What_?!” Connor turns his head so quickly he thinks he might have whiplash, and, sure enough, the guy seems to have excused himself from his group and is weaving through the crowd to where the four of them are huddled by the door.

“Maybe he just wants to go outside…” Connor begins, but trails that thought off when he locks eyes with the guy. He smiles at Connor; slow and seductive, one corner of his mouth hitching up, eyes dark and focused. Connor blushes, bites down on his lower lip and is still helpless to do anything but smile back. 

There’s a shout over the music, and the guy turns his head to look, breaking Connor’s gaze. And also his brief respite from heart racing panic and crippling social anxiety. “Oh shit, he’s coming over! What do I do?!” Connor appeals to his boys for help.

The responses he gets are...well, Connor doesn’t know what he expected.

“Ask if he’s Canadian!” (Nuge)

“Just tell him you’re Connor McDavid, and you want him to suck your dick...or want to suck his dick. Whichever you prefer. Both, even! Sixty-nineing can be a gay thing, right?” (Hallsy)

“Anything except Hallsy’s idea.” (Ebs)

Connor is torn between wishing for death, and wishing for Darnell Nurse: Nursey would have taken this seriously. 

“Hey,” Connor looks up and the guy is _right there_, and he’s even taller and hotter up close, and Connor is so fucked. 

“Hi, um, hey,” Connor wills his heart to stop racing, “er, hi.”

Hallsy’s smothering laughter and Nuge isn’t even pretending not to stare, cheeks hollowed around his dumb twisty straw, eyes flicking between Connor and the guy like he’s watching the tennis or something. Ebs is Connor’s new favourite. At least until Nursey comes back.

“Mind if I join you?” The words are addressed to the group but the guy’s eyes are locked on Connor’s.

“Um—”

“Actually, we were just about to go,” Ebs is dead to Connor. What the fuck. “The three of us, I mean,” he clarifies, gesturing to himself and Nuge and Hallsy. Ebs is no longer dead to him. In fact, Ebs is his favourite for life. Fuck Nursey: he abandoned Connor in his time of need anyway.

“That’s a shame,” the guy is smiling like he thinks it’s the opposite of a shame, actually, and doesn’t look away from Connor’s eyes even as Ebs drags a protesting Nuge and Hallsy away. “Guess it’s just you and me, then. If that’s okay?”

Connor nods, mute, and lets the guy crowd into his space, one long arm reaching out to brace against the wall over Connor’s shoulder. 

“I’m Dylan,” the guy – _Dylan_ – says, and then, before Connor can offer his own name, “and I have to warn you, man; I fucking love hockey.” He gestures with his beer bottle to his Leafs shirt and Blackhawks cap, “in case you couldn’t tell.”

If Connor wasn’t already in love before, he is now. 

“Yeah, um,” he blushes because Dylan is so perfect and he definitely knows who Connor is – but obviously isn’t going to make a big deal about it – and Connor has already picked out their wedding colours. “Yeah, me too, um, in case you couldn’t tell.”

It’s a terrible joke, but it makes Dylan laugh and Connor soaks up the sound. “A good Canadian boy, I see. How'd you feel about the Pens’ repeat? Senators almost had them, eh? Would have been nice to bring the cup back to Canada.”

Connor thinks about texting Nuge to let him know Dylan is almost definitely Canadian. He also thinks about how Dylan is the first person to not ask him about the Oilers’ playoffs appearance; like he’s making a point of seeing Connor as more than just ‘Connor McDavid’. It’s nice; it’s really nice.

(He does text Nuge, who replies immediately with: _did u ask about the hat???!?!?_

Fuck’s sake.))

* 

Mitch knew he was in for it as soon as he saw the incoming call was from 'Raccoon Boy', because Stromer loved to catch up after a night out to blame his hangovers on Mitch. Like it was _his_ fault Dylan had the tolerance, and personality, of a pre-teen girl. 

He didn’t realise _exactly_ how fucked he was though because the first words out of Dylan’s mouth when Mitch picks up are: “Did you cock block me and Connor McDavid last night?”

“What? No,” Mitch’s reply is automatic, because he is a bro, okay? And as much pleasure as it gives him to annoy Dylan, he would never stop another bro from hooking up with Number One Draft Pick, First Openly Gay NHL Superstar, Connor McJesus McDavid. Except—

Okay so, he definitely remembers dragging Dylan away from the sandy-haired, ruddy-cheeked boy he was chatting up (and feeling up, because Stromer is incapable of keeping it in his pants, goddamn) to ask if it was weird for Mitch to go to Arizona and visit Matts, because Matts had offered but also, it’s not like they were officially dating, you know? They just hooked up, and held hands, and went on bro dates that ended in the aforementioned hooking up and holding hands, and Mitch _knows how this sounds okay, Stromer?_ But he and Matts aren’t like that. Not that Mitch would be opposed but…not the point. 

The point is: now that Mitch is actively thinking about it, it’s entirely possible that the sandy-haired, ruddy-cheeked boy he dragged Stromer away from was, in fact, Hockey’s Slated Saviour and The Next Next One, Connor McFuckme McDavid. “Oh, fuck.”

“’Oh, fuck’ is right,” Dylan hisses. “What the fuck Marns?”

“Oh, okay so this is my fault, is it?” Look, Dylan might have conned Mitch into being his best friend and like, loving him or whatever, but that doesn’t mean that Mitch’s instinct to challenge everything he says just…went away. 

“Yes, Marns, yes, it is _your_ fucking fault.” Which is—okay, fair. 

“Okay, fair.” A tiny part of Mitch dies every time he concedes to Dylan, but then he supposes a tiny part of Stromer died when he was cock blocked while successfully putting the moves on Calder Nominee and Youngest Captain in NHL History, Connor McHockey McDavid. In Mitch’s defence though, it’s not like Stromer _said_ anything.

“In my defence,” Mitch says, “it’s not like you _said_ anything.”

“Um, I said he was probably my _soulmate_?” Dylan says this like Mitch didn’t do him a huge favour by not letting him drunkenly stick his dick in the so-called love of his life. 

“Sure, but, it’s not like you mentioned that ‘probably your soulmate’ was _Connor McDavid_? I would have scrammed if you’d just told me that the dick you were about to suck belonged to The Chosen One.”

There’s a pregnant pause. 

“No fucking way—”

“Marns—”

“You didn’t _know_?” Mitch’s voice is so high pitched every dog in the area is probably on it’s way over. And Mitch won’t even be able to enjoy it because his best friend is a dumb, drunk, oblivious bitch. “How did you not know, Stromer, what the fuck?”

“Well it’s not like _you_ knew either!” Which would be a fair point except, unlike Stromer, Mitch does not have a poster of McDavid in his bedroom. 

“Unlike you,” Mitch says, triumphant, “I don’t have a poster of McDavid in my bedroom.”

Dylan splutters, “I—_a post_—fuck you Marns, I do not have a _poster_ of him.”

“Whatever,” Mitch’s point still stands. “You jerk off to his hockey like, all the time, and you didn’t recognise his face while you were macking on it?”

“I do not _jerk off to his hockey_, Marns! What the fuck.”

“That’s even sadder,” Mitch isn’t sure it is but, whatever, he's aiming for 'annoying' not 'accurate'. “Plus, I don’t even believe you.” Mitch has seen Dylan’s browser history; no one who watches that many ‘McDavid highlights’ compilations on YouTube has lofty intentions. 

“I fucking don’t Marns, and whatever, he looks different without all the, you know, gear and stuff.” 

“He looks different without all the gear and stuff? Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Fuck off, Mitch.”

“Can't. Don't know how. Guess you’re stuck with me.” 

“Don’t know what I did to deserve that,” they’re fighting words, but Dylan can’t hide his fondness so it’s all talk.

“What the fuck ever, Strome, like I want to be stuck with your dumb ass: you didn’t realise you were chatting up The Next Sidney Crosby.” 

“What the fuck ever, Marner, like you have any room to talk: you still haven’t realised you’re dating Matthews.”

Mitch doesn’t even deign to dignify that with a response, so they just sit on the line quietly together. And it’s like, Matts is his forever boy or whatever, but fuck does Mitch love Stromer. Even if he’s a raccoon-looking dumbass. 

“So,” Mitch could sit in silence with Dylan forever and it’d be both totally cool and totally platonic, but now that Dylan’s calmed down some, Mitch has _questions_. “How’d you figure out it was McDavid? Morning hockey jerk it session jog your memory?” 

“Fuck off, no; he called me.”

“Hockey Jesus _called_ you? _You_?”__

“Yeah, he just like, calls me this morning. I thought it was you, actually, because who the fuck else would be calling me,” Stromer’s laugh is disbelieving, like he surprises himself with how much of a dumbass he is. “Pretty sure I told him to uh ‘fuck off and choke on Matthews’ dick.’”

Mitch could take offence to that, but he knows how much it annoys Stromer when Mitch laughs him off. “Actually, Matts loves it when I—”

“Finish that sentence and I will call Auston Matthews and tell him that you cried for three hours last night because you accidentally washed the sweatshirt you took from his laundry hamper to put on your ‘Matts-pillow’; which I’m also assuming he doesn’t know about.” Dylan absolutely would as well – the stringy little bitch – and Mitch can’t risk Auston finding out about Matts-pillow.

“Touché,” it’s not like Dylan doesn’t know exactly where that sentence was heading anyway; Mitch counts it as a win. “So, what did he want?”

“Who?”

Fucking hell, how Stromer is still alive is honestly beyond Mitch. “Connor.”

“McDavid?”

“No. Connor the streamlined engine. Fucking…_obviously_ Connor McDavid.” Mitch’s mum used to tell him if he rolled his eyes too much they’d fall out of his head, but when your best friend is Dylan ‘I’m confused’ Strome, it’s just a risk you have to take. “Does he want to meet up again, or was he just calling to ask you not to sell his number to the press or something?”

“Do you think people actually do that? Like, how little respect would you have to sell someone’s privacy like that?” Mitch’s heart warms a little. Dylan is such a good guy, it's hard to not be endeared by him. Mitch can do it, but it’s hard.

“Stromer, bud, not the point.”

“I know but like…”

“Stromer! Focus: what did McDavid want?” Mitch needs _answers_.

“What? I don’t know,” Stromer says this like it should be obvious, but the only obvious thing about this mess is how obviously terrible Connor McCaptain McDavid’s taste in guys is. Honestly, imagine being charmed by Dylan ‘I have the body shape – and also the emotional range – of a string bean’ Strome?

(Mitch is conveniently ignoring his own year-long crush on Stromer, because those were dark, pre-Auston days, and he was weak and Dylan was tall and good at hockey and Mitch is only Canadian, okay? It’s not his fault, and Millennial Gretzky should really know better.)

“What do you mean you don’t know? What did he say?”

“Uh, he apologised a lot—”

“Very on-brand for someone they call the ‘Canadian Super Promise’.”

“No one calls him that, Marns.”

“Uh, they absolutely do.” Mitch literally just googled it.

“I think I would know.”

“I think we’ve established that you absolutely would not.”

“Oh yeah, like you’re any better, Mr. ‘I’m Too Busy Crying About Auston Matthews to Realise I’m Cock Blocking Connor McDavid’.” 

“Uh, I definitely am better, Mr. ‘I’m Too Busy Fantasising About Connor McDavid in Sweaty Hockey Gear and Stuff to Realise I’m Chatting Him Up’.”

“Better? Better at sucking, maybe.” Dylan delivers this like it’s a scathing burn and it’s like he’s never even _met_ Mitch.

“That’s what Matts—”

“Foul! No Matts talk,” (Mitch would like to go on record that he doesn’t remember agreeing to this rule) “and also, ew, like I’d ever suck Matthews’ dick: I know where it’s been.” Which is rude, but fair. Even if Mitch didn’t have a one-track, Auston Matthews shaped heart, he has no interest in putting his mouth anywhere Stromer’s has been. (Dick-wise, at least. They share a water bottle all the time on the bench; it’s a subtle distinction.)

“Your loss: it’s a great dick.” Mitch misses it a lot. Not as much as he misses Auston’s like, face and laugh and the way he mutters to himself in Spanish as he does his work, but that’s the kind of thing Mitch is trying not to think about. Luckily, he’s getting all the distraction he needs right here. “So, Captain McSorry calls you?” 

It’s not that funny, but Stromer laughs anyway because he’s Mitch’s best friend. 

“Yeah, so he's apologising for taking advantage of me while I was drunk and didn’t know who he was,” Mitch wants to interject, but he holds his tongue so as not to derail the conversation again. “And I say it’s fine, obviously, and I’m about to tell him how I’d said to you that I thought he was probably like, my soulmate or something – and don’t think we’re finished talking about how you interrupted us even after I told you that, Mitchell – but anyway, that’s when it really hit me that aside from dragging me away from the potential love of my life, you also cock blocked me from _Connor McDavid_. So, I hung up and called you.”

“You hung up? And called me?” Mitch hopes he’s injecting enough disbelief into his tone, but it’s really anyone’s guess if Stromer will pick up on it or not. “Without finding out what he – he, being _Connor McDavid_ – wanted first?”

“Yes,” Stromer doesn’t sound like he realises what he’s done. “Because you _cock blocked me_.”

“Maybe so but...” Mitch thinks about how best to walk someone as oblivious as Stromer through this. “You hung up on _Connor McDavid_ – your soulmate, the love of your life, your future boo, etcetera, etcetera – who is calling you the _morning after he let you feel him up under the mistletoe_,” Mitch might be using some creative licensing here, but it’s for a good cause, “so you could yell at me about how I cock blocked you.”

“Okay first of all, there was no _mistletoe_; it’s _July_. And second of all, when you put it like that it sounds…” Stromer obviously doesn’t want to say it, but Mitch doesn’t have the same reservations. 

“Sounds…? Like you actually cock blocked _yourself_? So you could yell at me about cock blocking you?”

Mitch can practically feel it dawn on Dylan: exactly just how badly he fucked up. “Oh, fuck.”

“’Oh, fuck’ is right,” Mitch is feeling gleeful about being able to throw Stromer’s words back at him and is not making any effort to hide it. “You McFucked up, boi!”

Mitch is so busy laughing he doesn’t hear Stromer hang up on him. Which is rude, but he calls Mitch back two seconds later anyway so, whatever.

“First of all, you realise this means I was totally right about that being Taylor Hall, by the way. Also, stop calling me and ring McDavid, idiot!”

“Uh, congratulations?” Mitch sits up because fuck, not Stromer. “Also, I would, but I don’t have his number so...”

“Auston, hey.” Mitch is well-aware of how breathy he sounds but…it’s Auston. “Sorry, I thought you were Stromer.”

“Yikes, that hurts. I’m much better looking than Dylan, Mitchy.” Fuck but Mitch loves when Auston calls him that.

“Well that’s a no brainer,” Mitch giggles; actually _giggles_. And then immediately wants to die. “So, um, what’s up? How’s Arizona?”

Auston thankfully doesn’t mention the giggling. “Well, Arizona is great, and I _was_ calling to see if you’d given any more thought to coming out here but, what’s this about Strome and McDavid? Not like, Connor McDavid, surely?”

Mitch rolls over so he’s cuddled up to Matts-pillow. With Auston in his ear, and Matts-pillow under his cheek, he can pretend it’s like any other morning before Auston went home for summer. Maybe he will go to Arizona. 

“Yeah man, you’ll never believe it…”

* 

(The night Dylan Strome met Connor McDavid went a little like this:

“Marns. Marns. _Marns_. Mitchell middle name Marner—”

“_What_?” if Mitch is trying to hide his annoyance, he’s doing a terrible job, and Dylan had Important News but now he doesn't even want to tell Mitch anymore.

“Nothing,” Dylan hopes Marns can hear his pout, since Mitch still isn't looking at him. “I had Important News, but now I don't even want to tell you anymore.”

“Good, I don’t want to know.” So, that backfired. 

Luckily, Dylan has a Plan B.

“Marns. Marns. Marns. Marns.” Okay, so Plan B looks a lot like Plan A; whatever, Dylan’s drunk. “Marns. Marns. Marns – I can do this all day by the way – Marns. Marns—”

“Why are you so annoying?” Mitch still doesn’t look away from his phone – probably texting Matts about how he like, misses his forehead or something – which means Dylan’s obviously not annoying _enough_.

“It’s part of my charm, obviously – Marns. Marns. Marns. Marns. Ma—”

“Oh my god, _fine_,” Mitch finally looks at Dylan so: cheers to another flawlessly executed plan. “If I let you tell me your 'Important News', will you stop?”

“Yes.” Probably. Mitch actually put his phone down to do air quotes around 'Important News', so maybe Dylan will punish him a little longer.

He'll have to play it by ear.

“Okay then, _please_, pretty please, will you tell me your news, Dyl-pickle?” Mitch bats his eyes because he’s an asshole and Dylan’s best friend and Dylan can’t decide if he did something awful or awesome to deserve that.

“I mean, _if_ you insist—”

“I definitely don’t.”

“Too late now. Just—look over by the back door. But like, subtle.”

Mitch immediately turns and stares in the least subtle way possible. Which Dylan probably should have seen coming, since Marns is also very drunk.

“Is that Taylor Hall?”

“What?” Dylan squints at Mitch, incredulous. “No. Why would Taylor Hall be in Toronto?”

“I don’t know! What else would you be making me look at?”

“Umm, my fucking soulmate, maybe?”

“Who?” Mitch says this like it isn’t the dumbest question he’s ever asked. And Mitch once asked who Connor McDavid was. 

“What do you—? Who? What do you mean, ‘who’?”

Mitch squints at him like Dylan’s the crazy one. “There’s like, four guys over there, Stromer.” Which is technically true, but Mitch is supposed to be his _best friend _; that should include using his friendship detective skills to identify Dylan’s future husband. “Which one do you mean?”

“Which—? The cute one! Obviously.” 

Mitch tilts his head, “I don’t know, Dyl, they’re all kind of cute.”

Dylan is incensed. How dare Marns compare the cuteness of the softest boy in the universe with said boy’s frat bro friends and a Taylor Hall Wannabe? Dylan is going to rat him out to Matthews for that. 

“I’m telling Matts you said someone else was cute.” Maybe it will be the push they need to stop pretending that whatever they’re doing is just ‘buddies’. Dylan isn’t judging, but you don’t see him and Alex pushing their beds together to create some weird dorm room love nest, is all he’s saying. (Of course that could be because Dylan has watched Brinksy eat mayonnaise straight out of the jar, and is subsequently turned off by everything he does, ever. But that’s not the point. The point is: Mitch and Auston are in love, and also are really stupid.)

“Why? It’s not like he’d even care,” Mitch sounds so despondent about this that Dylan is tempted to reassure him that of course Matts would care, and Mitch is being a fucking numpty about the whole thing. But then he remembers Mitch insinuated that a Taylor Hall look-alike could be Dylan’s soulmate.

“Yeah, you’re right, he probably wouldn’t care; never mind then.” Dylan hopes Mitch cries himself to sleep. 

Marns flips him the bird and goes back to staring pathetically at his phone. Dylan returns the gesture and goes back to staring pathetically at the probable love of his life; who has been seemingly abandoned by his trio of friends.

He’s adorable – Dylan’s one and only – all rosy cheeks and soft hair. It’s falling into his eyes as he stares into his drink, and Dylan thinks that with a little bit of stubble he might be considered sexy. But like this? Clean shaven? Those cheeks on display? He’s the softest thing Dylan’s ever seen. Dylan wants to pet his hair; and kiss his flushed cheeks; and wrap him in a blanket; and take him home to meet his family; and destroy him at road hockey (this might be love, but road hockey is like the ghetto, okay: there is no love in the ghetto). 

“Do you think he likes road hockey?” Dylan asks Mitch.

“Who? Matts?” Fuck but Dylan’s best friend is a dumb, drunk, lovesick bitch. 

“No, why would I care about Matts liking road hockey? I obviously meant _my_ soulmate, not yours.” Mitch goes from outraged to outright dopey when Dylan calls Matts his soulmate. What a loser. 

“I don’t know, Dyl.” Mitch drains the last of his beer. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Oh yeah, I’ll just ask him,” Dylan goes heavy on the sarcasm because Drunk Mitch isn’t the best at picking up tone. “I’ll just walk over to the _cutest boy in the world_ and my _literal soulmate_ and ask him if he likes road hockey. What are you? Insane? I can’t do that!”

“Can’t do what, Stromer?” Mikey appears out of nowhere, handing another beer to Mitch, and one to Dylan too. Nate is trailing behind him, as usual. “Go ten minutes without talking about hockey?”

“Oh, ha-fucking-ha. I can go ten minutes without talking about hockey.” Honestly, ten minutes is probably a stretch, but Dylan hopes Mitch gets the hint, remembers he’s supposed to be Dylan’s _best friend_, and doesn’t rat him out for the hockey talk.

“Dyl thinks he found his soulmate, and wants to know if he likes road hockey, but _apparently_ can’t just go up and _ask_.” Mitch is a fucking _rat bastard_ and Dylan can’t remember why they’re even friends.

Clouder makes a face around his bottleneck. “In what world does Dyl’s soulmate _not_ like road hockey? Isn’t that a—a—fuck what’s the word—? A _condition_ of being your soulmate, Stromer? Like ‘Must Love Dogs’ but for unhealthy hockey obsessions.”

“I do not have an _unhealthy_ obsession with hockey!” Clouder, Nate, and Marns just stare at him, unconvinced. 

“Yeah, okay,” says Mikey, “tell that to your outfit. What even is that? Is that a _Blackhawks_ hat?”

“People like the Blackhawks,” Dylan defends. “Besides, it was a present from Brinksy.” 

(‘Present’ is a charitable description. What actually happened, is that Dylan made the mistake of chirping Brinksy for being a fucking nerd who is abandoning Dylan to transfer to Northwestern in September. And Brinksy, _because he's a fucking nerd_ decided that the rational way to retaliate, was to replace all of Dylan’s caps - which had been fifty percent Leafs, fifty percent miscellaneous - with Blackhawks hats. It's a good thing red and black looks good on him because, team loyalties aside, Dylan still refuses to leave the house without a cap.)

“Yo, where is Brinks?” Clouder looks around like Alex is about to jump out at him, which, to be fair to Mikey, would be very on-brand for Brinksy. “Thought he was going to hang around the GTA for a bit?”

“He is, but he got caught up playing video games with Matty and decided not to come out tonight,” Dylan rolls his eyes because, honestly, what even was Brinksy? “Guess destroying my little brother on the Rainbow Road was more important than free beer.” 

“Better tell him to bunk in with Matt, too, eh?” Mitch does something with his eyebrows that Dylan assumes is meant to be suggestive. When Dylan doesn’t react, Mitch elaborates, “you know, because—”

“Yeah, Marns, I got it.”

“—you’ll be boning—”

“I said I got it!”

“—your one true love.”

Mikey and Nate are laughing silently, and Marns is smirking at him like Dylan doesn’t know about his ‘Matts-pillow’. Dylan’s about to respond – something about his pure and lofty thoughts – but gets distracted watching his soulmate blow some hair out of his eyes, soft pink lips pouting prettily, and, well: there go his pure and lofty thoughts.

At that exact moment, Definitely Not Taylor Hall crashes into Cute Guy’s side, and Cute Guy looks over at Dylan, and...oh. _Oh_.

Dylan texts Brinksy to bunk in Matty’s room.)

* 

“Okay, Dylan. You got this. You can do this. You can pick up the phone, and call Connor McDavid. You can apologise for hanging up on him. You can ask him out on a date. You convinced him to kiss you once, and to give you his highly sought after phone number; he probably won’t say no to an actual date. And if he does say no, that’s okay too. Of course, you’ll never find anyone else as perfect as him, and will definitely be alone forever. But at least you’ll be able to tell your seventeen shelter cats about that time you kissed THE Connor McDavid. And then hung up on him and ruined your only chance at love, you stupid fucking—” 

“What are you doing?”

Dylan yelps as Brinksy pushes open the bathroom door, Matty hot on his heels.

“Brinks, what the fuck? I could have been shitting or—or naked or something.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t,” Brinksy points out. “Also I’ve seen your dick before, it’s fine. _This_, on the other hand,” Brinksy waves a hand at Dylan’s everything, “this is weird. Are you seriously standing in front of the mirror giving yourself a—what’s the opposite of a pep talk? A de-pep talk?”

“A de-pep talk? Yeah, that's not a thing.”

“And yet…” Brinksy gestures at Dylan again. 

“And yet what?” Playing dumb maybe isn’t the best plan, but it’s all Dylan’s got so he’s sticking with it. 

“And yet we totally heard you telling yourself that you ruined your only chance at love,” Matty pipes up. “Because you hung up on...did you say Connor McDavid?”

“Er, no?” If there’s anything that Dylan definitely _doesn’t_ need, aside from any more Blackhawks hats, it’s for Matty to have more chirping material on him. It’s bad enough that he found out Dylan used to have a crush on Mitchell Marner of all people, if he finds out about the McDavid thing...Dylan doesn’t even want to think about it. What if he tells _Ryan_? 

“He definitely said McDavid,” Alex confirms, nudging Matty (and since when are he and Matt bosom buddies anyway?). “I heard him yelling at Mitch this morning for cock blocking them.”

“Brinksy!” Dylan needs to get some better friends because all of his _suck_.

“It’s a joke though, right?” Matty asks, glancing between Dylan and Brinks. “You didn’t actually hang up on _Connor McDavid_? Or hook up with him? Right?”

“Um…” Dylan can see the gears turning in Matty’s head as he realises what this means. “I—”

“Dude,” Matty is grinning now, and Dylan is _fucked_. “Dude.”

“It gets worse,” Dylan snaps his head over to Alex, who is also grinning, and what the fuck has Dylan ever done to deserve a friend like Brinksy? 

“Don’t even—”

“Until he called, Dylan didn’t know—”

“Brinks, I swear—”

“—that it was McDavid that he hooked up with last night.”

“Mother_fucker_—” 

“You _forgot_ you hooked up with Connor McDavid?” Matty interrupts Dylan, which—rude. 

“Try: didn’t recognise him in the first place.” Brinksy must hate him. It’s the only explanation. Dylan must have killed Ralph DeBrindog and then somehow made himself forget about it because there’s literally _no other explanation_ for this level of fuckery. Dylan hopes Alex freezes to death in the Windy City. 

“I hope you freeze to death in the Windy City, Alex.”

Brinksy just nods serenely. “That’s fair.”

“And as for _you_,” Matty looks up from where his fingers are flying over his phone screen and raises his eyebrows. “Please don’t tell Ryan?” It’s a futile request, probably, but Dylan has to at least _attempt_ to limit the damage. 

Matty smirks. “Yeah that's not gonna happen, big bro,” he taps at his screen one last time, then slides his phone into his pocket. “You know how it goes.”

Dylan, unfortunately, does know how it goes. It’s served him well in the past, because there’s nothing quite like teaming up with your brother to ensure the maximum humiliation of another brother, but goddamn it’s a bitch to be on the other side of. His phone vibrates in his hand and he looks down to see he already has a message from Ryan. “I hate everything, especially the two of you.” 

“Ryan?” Matty asks, nodding to Dylan’s phone.

Dylan just glares. 

“Yeah, okay,” Matty holds his hands up in surrender, and backs towards the door, shit eating grin firmly in place. “Let’s go Brinks: Rainbow Road rematch?”

Brinksy stares hard at Matt. “Sure,” he says finally, speaking slowly. “Why don’t you uh, get everything set up. I’m just going to stay here and help Dylan prepare what he’s going to say. To Connor McDavid. Who he hung up on. After hooking up with him while not realising who he was. He, being Connor McDavid. Who Dylan is about to call.” He’s speaking really weirdly; stressing his words and maintaining this creepy intense eye contact with Matt. 

Matty’s eyebrows shoot up. “_Oh_,” he says, like something has dawned on him. “Yeah, gotcha.”

Dylan looks between Brinksy and Matt, feeling like he’s missing something. “What—” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Brinks waves him off. “Matty didn’t realise how important it would be for you to have some moral support; I was just reminding him of the situation.”

“Oka-ay...?” Something feels off, but Brinksy brings up Connor again, and Dylan forgets about it.

“So, you’re really going to call Connor McDavid, huh? What're you going to say?”

“Er—”

“You _do_ know what you’re going to say to him, right?”

“Um—”

“Dylan!” Brinksy slaps him round the head, which—rude. 

“Ow?” It’s not like Brinksy actually hurt him, but it’s the principle of the thing. “Uncalled for, Brinks.”

“Uh, perfectly called for? What the fuck are you thinking?”

“Um, that he totally hooked up with me once and it’s not like I had a script then?” 

“Yeah, but Drunk You has way more game than Sober You.” This is unfortunately true. “Sober You hung up on him. He, being Connor McDavid.”

This is also unfortunately true. 

“First overall pick, Connor McDavid,” Brinksy continues.

“Yeah, I kno—”

“Youngest NHL captain, Connor McDavid.”

“I kno—”

“Broke-his-collarbone-and-was-out-for-three-months-and-was-_still_-a-Calder-nominee, Connor McDavid.”

“I know who Connor McDavid is!” Dylan must let his frustration show because Brinksy immediately puts his hands up.

“Alright, alright, no need to shout.” Alex drops his hands, and grins slyly. “But that’s not what you said last night, eh? Eh?”

Dylan goes for the head.

“Okay, but seriously,” Brinksy says a few minutes later, breathless from fighting his way out of Dylan’s headlock. “You’re really going to wing it? Is that a good idea? This is _Connor McDavid_ we’re talking about; you can’t go in with no plan! It’s going to be such a trainwre—” Brinksy cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Er, you know what? Don’t listen to me.”

“What?” Dylan really doesn’t understand what’s happening.

“Yeah, I don’t know anything,” Brinksy starts backing towards the door. “You just uh, do your thing. It worked once before—”

“You said that’s because I was drunk!”

“Did I?” Brinksy frowns. “That doesn’t sound right.”

Dylan wants to have just one conversation today where he doesn’t feel completely out of the loop. “But—”

“Gotta go, bye.” Dylan is still staring at the door, confused, when Brinksy pops his head back in. “You are going to call him in _your_ room and not from the bathroom, right?”

“Um, yes,” Dyan squints at Brinksy suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just wanted to make sure you were going for the right ambience,” Brinksy says. And, honestly, _ambience_? What the fuck kind of nerd.

“Okay?” Dylan just—doesn’t get Brinksy at all.

“Alright-y, well, I will go and find Matty then.” Brinksy closes the door, then opens it again immediately. “Also, don’t take too long, okay?”

“Brinks, will you just—”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I’m leaving.”

Dylan waits a few seconds, but Brinksy seems to be gone for good this time. Which means there’s not a lot left for Dylan to do except go back to his room and call Connor McDavid.

...awesome. 

* 

(The night Dylan Strome met Connor McDavid also went a little something like this:

“No, I’m seriou—stop laughing—I’m serious! I could take you!” Dylan tries to keep a straight face, but it’s really hard when his boy looks so cute; his laughter infectious even though Dylan knows it’s directed at him. “I’m the fucking ball hockey _king_!”

His future husband schools his expression – mostly – and raises his eyebrows. “You know I’ve also played _ball_ hockey my whole life, right?” 

If Dylan were less drunk – on either the alcohol, or what feels a lot like love – he’d probably notice the emphasis cute boy puts on the ‘ball’ in that sentence: like he’s comparing his play to a different type of hockey, and not to Dylan’s own claim of a life-long ball hockey career. 

Dylan, however, is not less drunk, and the nuance goes unnoticed. 

“Yeah but,” Dylan lowers his voice and leans in, feeling his boy shiver and smirking when his eyes linger on Dylan’s mouth. “You’ve never played _me_ in ball hockey.” He runs his tongue along his bottom lip; revelling in the way his boy’s eyes darken, his own tongue flicking out to wet his lips in an involuntary response.

“Um,” Dylan’s soon-to-be-boyfriend looks a little dazed when he finally pulls his gaze away from Dylan’s lips long enough to make eye contact again. “That’s uh...” He trails off, distracted, when Dylan wraps his lips around his almost empty beer bottle and tilts his head back to swallow the last little bit. “That’s cheating.”

“What’s cheating?” Dylan steals the boy’s barely touched cup and drains that too, then drops both empties on the ground – _sorry, Mikey’s friend_ – and, watching his boy’s face for any sign of discomfort, tucks the fingers of his newly freed hand through his boy’s belt loops and tugs - just a little.

“I—um,” Cute Boy takes the invitation, shuffling impossibly closer, hands fluttering nervously between them until he finally settles them; one over Dylan’s sternum, the other curled loosely around his bicep. “Um,” he looks up at Dylan, and his cheeks are so red, and his hair looks so soft. Pressed together this closely, Dylan can see that his pupils are blown wide with want; his irises, which Dylan had thought were straight blue, flecked through with a hint of green.

“I...” Cute Boy sways closer, eyes dropping again to Dylan’s mouth. Dylan, in return, lets his own gaze linger purposefully on Cute Boy’s cute pout. “I don’t—”

Dylan doesn’t find out what exactly Cute Boy “doesn’t”, because his tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip again and Dylan’s control snaps. “Fuck. I’m going to kiss you, okay?”

His boy’s lips part in a silent _oh_, and he tilts his head up in wordless invitation: Dylan's helpless to resist.

His boy lets out a shaky exhale when Dylan stoops to meet his upturned mouth, and he takes advantage of the movement to slip his tongue past parted lips, relishing in the way it makes his boy press closer; tightening his hold on Dylan’s bicep. 

Dylan makes an aborted sound and pulls back, huffing out a laugh when his boy tries to follow his lips. 

“Lemme just—” Dylan untangles his fingers from his boy’s belt loops and runs his hands through his hair to dislodge his cap, settling it on again backwards. “Don’t want to jab you.” 

His boy nods and lets Dylan crowd him against the wall, arms winding around Dylan’s neck. The new angle is off for a few seconds: Dylan no longer braced against the wall, and just a touch too tall to be comfortable. He’s about to hunch over again when his boy whines in the back of his throat, and uses his grip to pull himself up onto his toes; sighing contently when their lips are back in perfect alignment. 

He’s the most precious thing Dylan’s ever seen. 

It’s a bit of a cliche, and if Dylan were sober he’d chirp _himself_ for thinking it, but time slips away from him: everything narrowing down to the spit-slick slide of their mouths; the hand on Dylan’s sternum that slides up to stroke mindlessly at the curve between his neck and his shoulder; the warmth of his boy’s skin when Dylan tucks his fingers into his waistband, snakes his other hand down to tuck up under his boy's shirt, fingers curving across his ribcage. 

It’s warm and wet and heady, but – by Dylan’s usual standards at least – pretty chaste: there’s no grinding, or groping, or hands in places that would have them arrested for public indecency. It’s possible that Dylan’s known to be a little loose when it comes to where and when and how he likes to get off, but there’s something about this boy that stops him from pushing things into exhibitionist territory. A combination, Dylan thinks, of his boy’s obviously reserved nature, and Dylan’s own aversion to letting anyone else see his boy that way: pliant and sated and _Dylan’s_.

He growls a little at the thought, pulling his hand from where it’s tucked in his boy’s waistband and resettling it at the small of his back; fingers wriggling between denim and skin to stroke lightly across the divot of his boy’s tailbone. It makes his boy gasp and arch into Dylan’s touch; makes Dylan chuckle into his mouth and pull back, just a little, just until he can whisper against his boy’s lips—

“Hey, do you—”

“Daaaave!” Dylan stumbles as the Taylor Hall Wannabe from earlier careens into their space, alcohol-rank breath blowing hot across Dylan's face. “Getting that dick, yeah! Knew you had it in you, boo.” He pauses and looks intently between Dylan and Dylan’s boy, who is apparently called Dave. “Do you need to borrow a condom?” 

Dave looks as horrified as Dylan feels. “Oh my god, no, go away.” He shoves ineffectively at his friend’s face, carefully avoiding avoiding Dylan’s eye as a blush creeps down his neck. “Why are you like this?”

“Gotta look out for my rookie,” Not Taylor Hall grins back, surprisingly sober-sounding for someone who smells like a distillery. 

“Not your rookie, Jersey Boy.” Dave hisses back, like it’s a scathing blow and not a string of nonsense. Dylan hopes his heart eyes aren’t showing. “Sorry,” Dave deflates quickly. “Just—can you leave? Please?”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Dave’s friend pulls back from where he’s draped himself across the two of them, squeezing tightly – like really fucking tightly, holy fuck that hurts – at Dylan’s shoulder as he goes. Dylan tips his head in acknowledgement of the warning, trying really hard not to wince at the ache in his shoulder. Seriously, why was this guy so strong? What the fuck.

“Sooo,” Dylan starts, once the guy has bounced off (hollering for a nurse, or something?) “Was that—” 

“Can we just—can we pretend that didn’t happen?” Dave peers up at him; lips kiss-bruised and cherry-red.

“Of course,” Dylan agrees, dry-mouthed. “Whatever you want.”

His boy bits his lip shyly, then pushes up on his toes again and nudges his nose against Dylan’s. “Just—” his lips brush Dylan’s as he speaks. “—this. I just want this.”

And it's—

Dylan’s just sinking back into it, interruption essentially forgotten, when he’s suddenly and unceremoniously being dragged away from the love of his life by one Mitchell _Fucking_ Marner, who should not be able to manhandle Dylan like this when he’s about half the size of him but probably just as drunk. 

“Sorry, Stromer,” Marns says, sounding very _un_sorry, and pinching Dylan’s neck when he twists to look back at where his future husband is watching him be towed away in frozen bewilderment. “No dick tonight; I’m having a crisis.”

“But—” Even from halfway across the room - and seriously _how_ is a midget like Mitchell Marner herding him so quickly? Dylan has at least three inches on him, and probably a good twenty-five pounds as well – but even from halfway across the room, Dylan can see how his boy’s hair is mussed up; his lips soft and swollen and begging to be kissed again.

“No buts!” Marns decrees, shoving Dylan outside and out of sight of his boy. “Find him later. We need to talk about Auston.”

“But—”

“No buts, Stromer. I swear I will go back inside, I will find your boy, and I will show him that picture of you from after we kicked your ass in the playoffs. The one with the bleached hair and disgusting sadness moustache.”

Fuck. Mitch absolutely would as well, because there are many reasons that he’s Dylan’s best friend and, unfortunately, a shared commitment to petty acts of vengeance is one of them.

“I fucking _hate_ you,” Dylan concedes, stealing the beer Mitch has conjured out of thin air, and ignoring the dirty look he gets in return. If Dylan has to listen to Marns whine at him about Auston instead of going home with the love of his life, you can bet he’s going to need a _lot_ more alcohol.) 

* 

He still doesn’t think a script is necessary, but in acknowledgement of his tendency to run his mouth a little, Dylan comes up with a to-do list: apologise for hanging up, ask Connor out, don’t declare his everlasting love. 

The last one is honestly supposed to be a joke, but then Connor McDavid answers the phone like someone who’s never spoken to another human being before, and Dylan has to consciously remind himself that a marriage proposal would be neither a practical nor rational response to this information. 

“Hi. Dylan? Hey, um, hi. Er, hey.”

Fuck, Dylan is so gone. 

“Connor! Hey,” Dylan can’t remember a single thing on his list: something about declaring his everlasting love? “Yeah, it’s uh, me. It’s Dylan. Hi.” 

“Yeah, Dylan, hi. Hey. Hi,” Connor sounds breathless. He’s probably out for a run, or – fuck – training. Because it might be the off-season, but this is _Connor McDavid_. 

“Sorry, is this—I’ve called at a bad time, haven’t I?,” Dylan can’t believe he’s interrupted Connor McDavid’s training session. He’s a disgrace to his country. “ I can just—”

“_No_!” Connor sounds almost...panicked? “No, it’s fine. Why do you—? It’s not a bad time. It’s—I’m really glad you called me back.”

“Oh,” Dylan says lamely, mind stuck on the fact that _Connor McDavid_ is really glad that _Dylan_ called him back. “Yeah, me too.” Dylan wants to punch himself in the face.

There’s an awkward pause which Dylan rushes to fill. Unfortunately, Connor does too. 

“Do you want to—”

“I just wanted to—” Dylan cuts off when he realises Connor has started speaking, but Connor obviously has the same idea. There’s a long silence as they both wait for the other to speak. Dylan uses the time to start naming his future cats. 

“Do you want to go out with me?” Connor blurts out eventually, breaking the silence.

Dylan, for all that he was planning to ask Connor out, was not prepared for that: it’s possible his brain shorts out a little. “Um—”

“Like, go out on a date, I mean. Not go out like ‘be my boyfriend’.”

Barely recovered from being _asked out_ by _Connor McDavid_, his _almost definite soulmate_, Dylan's brain clocks out again at the word ‘boyfriend’. “Er—”

“Not that I don’t want you to be my boyfriend. Because I _definitely do_. I just—”

Dylan is going to have to say actual words at some point if he wants to marry Connor McDavid – which, he absolutely does – but that’s hard when Connor McDavid insists on saying things like that he wants Dylan – as in, him: he, Dylan Strome – to be his boyfriend. “Uh—”

“Sorry, that was—that was weird. I’m just—I should just go. Sorry, er...I’m gonna—sorry. Bye.”

And then Connor McDavid hangs up. Which Dylan would probably agree he deserved, if he had any idea what the fuck just happened.

“What the fuck just happened?”

Dylan definitely doesn’t jump or scream at the sound of Brinksy’s voice, _shut up Matt_.

“Holy shit,” Dylan breathes, clutching his phone to his chest. “What the fuck, Brinks? What are you—? Is that _popcorn_?”

“Yeah, man,” Brinksy shoves another handful of microwave popcorn into his mouth. “You didn’t really think Matty and I were going to play Rainbow Road while you called back _Connor McDavid_, did you? What kind of amateurs do you think we are? You can’t write this kind of entertainment, man.”

“I’m live texting this to Ryan,” Matty chimes in, apparently in agreement with Brinksy’s claim. “He says ‘Classic Dylan. Someone should tell him that if he wants to marry Connor McDavid, he’s going to have to say actual words at some point. Funny as fuck though.’”

Dylan can’t argue with Ryan’s comment, so he chooses to just ignore it instead. “What the—were you _under my bed_? How were you texting Ryan? How did you even _fit_?”

“Not under the bed,” Brinksy corrects, offering the popcorn to Matt. “Just on the other side.” He munches thoughtfully for a bit. “You’re not very observant, you know?” 

“Fuck off, I’m plenty observant.”

“I mean,” Brinksy sounds unconvinced. “Aside from the fact that you didn’t notice Matt and I in your room eating popcorn and listening to you fail to talk to McJesus, there’s the whole thing where you, you know, didn’t notice you were hooking up with him in the first place.”

“I noticed I was hooking up with him,” Dylan objects on principle. “I just didn’t know the ‘him’ was, you know, _him_.”

“Right,” Brinksy looks unimpressed. “My bad for the ambiguous wording. Congrats on noticing someone was attached to your lips last night, Dyl, maybe if _you were more observant_ you would have noticed that someone was The Next Sidney Crosby.”

“You know, I really hate that comparison,” Dylan feels compelled to point out, mostly to change the subject. “He’s not ‘The Next Sidney Crosby’: he’s the first Connor McDavid.”

“Oh my god,” Matty sounds horrified, but gleeful, at this revelation. That is not a good sign for Dylan. “That’s the most sickening shit I’ve ever heard. If Ryan doesn’t put this in his best man speech, I’m officially disowning him.”

“What makes you think _Ryan_ would be my—?”

“Dyl,” Matty interrupts, rolling his eyes. “Come on.”

Dylan tries not to feel guilty because, yeah. He and Ryan might fight the most, but they also get each other in a way that Dylan and Matty (and Ryan and Matty) never have.

“Matty—” Matt waves him off. 

“It’s whatever, at least I’m Mum and Dad’s favourite.” Which is, yeah, also true. “Besides,” he smirks, “at this rate you’ll never get married anyway: just continuously hang up on each other in a never-ending cycle of nervous panic until one of you dies.”

Dylan resents how accurate that description is.

“Maybe you should just text him?” Brinksy mumbles around his mouthful of popcorn.

Dylan’s about to shut that idea down, because, honestly: it came from _Brinksy_. But then he stops and thinks about it and—

_To [hockey stick x 8]: hey connor. it’s dylan. you hung up before I could say smth but do you want to go on a date w me? like maybe rn?_

He hits send before he can second-guess himself.

“Wow,” Brinksy comments, reading over his shoulder. “Way to sound super chill. I’m sure he won’t be scared off by that at all.” He’s clearly going for sarcastic, but the joke is on him because barely a second later Dylan’s phone beeps. 

_From [hockey stick x 8]: Yes! Where?_

Dylan sends him their home address. “Alright, assholes, clear the fuck out.” He pauses, then clarifies. “Like, out of the house, I mean. Not just my room.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Matty whines. 

Dylan just raises an eyebrow at him and types another message to Connor. 

“Come on, Matt,” Brinksy steers. “You don’t want to be here when your brother devirginises McJesus. Trust me.”

Dylan flips him the bird, but doesn’t look away from his phone, where Connor is proving he is just as much of a disaster over text.

_To [hockey stick x 8]: bring a stick. we’re playing ball hockey._

_From [hockey stick x 8]: okay and then maybe after that we can plan our wedding. and play a different kind of ball game [eggplant] [eggplant] [water droplets]_

_From [hockey stick x 8]: I am so sorry._

_From [hockey stick x 8]: That was Hallsy._

_From [hockey stick x 8]: Um, Taylor Hall?_

_From [hockey stick x 8]: It wasn’t me._

_From [hockey stick x 8]: I swear._

_From [hockey stick x 8]: I’m so sorry._

_From [hockey stick x 8]: Do you still want me to come over?_

_From [hockey stick x 8]: I understand if you don’t._

_From [hockey stick x 8]: But I wear that was Hallsy and not me._

_From [hockey stick x 8]: *swear_

_From [hockey stick x 8]: Sorry!_

Dylan is just—so in love with this boy. He must be; to feel so warm over messages so objectively disastrous. 

_To [hockey stick x 8]: yeah come over_

He pauses, contemplating, then types another message.

_To [hockey stick x 8]: we’re not getting married in edm tho_

_To [hockey stick x 8]: it can be at a rink if u want_

_To [hockey stick x 8]: but only if it’s in the GTA _

He gets a reply almost immediately.

_From [hockey stick x 8]: Deal [hockey stick] [blue heart]_

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, I have already started writing The Wedding, and also another timestamp that's Connor's first hat trick against the Blackhawks (I'm sure you can guess why), so if you like this lemme know and I'll like, try and get those done in a much more timely manner than I did this one yikes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] It's not cock blocking if you never had a shot with her, bro](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23495068) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)


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